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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23521861">We Two, How Long We Were Fool'd</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadflown/pseuds/thisbirdhadflown'>thisbirdhadflown</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:22:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>939</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23521861</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadflown/pseuds/thisbirdhadflown</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s our story, John wants him to say. He wants the two of them standing by a dusty road in bowler hats with just enough money to get by, he wants the two of them sharing a microphone day after day, he wants the void to snap shut and heal without a scar. It aches, sitting in his chest, and listening to Paul’s gentle voice saying everything but those words drags something from the pit of his chest in desperation or in fondness, “-It’s like you and me are lovers.”</p>
<p>1969, John and Paul run through Two of Us again. Based on real dialogue.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Lennon/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>We Two, How Long We Were Fool'd</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This little bit of drabble is based on <a href="https://thisbirdhadflownx.tumblr.com/post/614616564622360576/amoralto-january-24th-1969-after-john-and-paul">this exchange</a> that happened between John and Paul during a run through of Two of Us.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span class="long-line"><em>"We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again, we two,</em></span><br/>
<span class="long-line"><em>We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy."<br/></em>
</span> <span class="long-line"><em>Walt Whitman</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>He almost looks like a mirage, flickering like candle light in and out of what is real and what is a dream. Paul’s earthy eyes watching him over the microphone, full mouth wrapping around words that John can see the tangled roots of resembling the two of them. His beard is concealing so much of the face that has always been his constant, but the light is still there. There’s a teasing whisper curling around his heart when he doesn’t drag his eyes away.</p>
<p>Paul steps back, looking pleased and bright at the progress of this song. And John knows better, that’s what he tells himself, to not reach out and claim what would never be his. But those lyrics are like sun falling through windows, splashing against the cold tiles of John’s soul. <em> We’re on our way home </em>, a simple brilliant lyric that inspires so much within him. The warmth behind those words, the warmth of their voices together like this. </p>
<p>Paul runs a hand through his long hair, “It’s like, uh, ‘<em> we have to get back </em>.’ ‘We’re on our way home.’” </p>
<p>John half smiles, eyes scanning the space on the floor between their feet, “Yeah.”</p>
<p><em> It’s them </em>, he wants to believe in it. He wants Paul to spill over into the truth between them, he knows it's there. </p>
<p>Paul strokes over his beard, that same pleased look still there, “There’s a <em> story </em> . There’s another one - ‘Don’t Let Me Down’. <em> Oh darling, I’ll never let you down </em>.” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” John bites down on his lip. </p>
<p>“Like we’re doing-” </p>
<p><em> It’s our story </em>, John wants him to say. He wants the two of them standing by a dusty road in bowler hats with just enough money to get by, he wants the two of them sharing a microphone day after day, he wants the void to snap shut and heal without a scar. It aches, sitting in his chest, and listening to Paul’s gentle voice saying everything but those words drags something from the pit of his chest in desperation or in fondness, “-It’s like you and me are lovers.”</p>
<p>Paul’s movement stills, eyes dragging over the neck of his guitar in a way that John has seen too many times to be frustrated by it anymore. It just leaves him hollow and wanting now. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Paul licks over his lip, half shrugging, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from the steel strings under his fingers. </p>
<p>There’s a heavy breath crawling up his throat, a weary sigh that he doesn’t want to shatter the moment with. He saves them, “We’ll just have to camp it up for those two.”</p>
<p>He smiles slyly, Paul catching his eye and battling his own breaking grin, “Yeah… Well, I’ll be wearing my skirt for the show, anyway.”</p>
<p>The music swells up again and Paul steps up to the microphone. </p>
<p>
  <em> We’re on our way home. </em>
</p>
<p>There’s a loneliness he’s been cradling for what seems like years now, and Paul watching him from underneath the low light of the studio stirs the dust of it. He wants to believe these words, he wants to know from head to heels that Paul wants what they have when they are together as much as he does. He wants to circle back, in spite of all the danger, to what they were before. Before India and before the days started to drag in an acid-distorted haze. He doesn’t want to comb through every interaction they have for the morsels of affection and devotion - but he knows he’s been doing that since the start. ‘<em> Do you really like me? </em> ’ Two teenagers sitting on the bed at Mendips, guitars in their laps and John’s glasses sitting at the end of his nose and Paul scribbling down chords into his notebook. ‘ <em> Stuff off, ‘course I do </em> . <em> I’m here, aren’t I? </em>’</p>
<p>
  <em> We’re on our way home. </em>
</p>
<p>Ringo is at his drum set, gently propelling the steady beat along. George is sitting in his chair with a leg thrown over the other, picking at his guitar with a furrowed brow. Yoko is sitting on the floor behind him, cross legged and inspecting her fingernails when her eyes aren’t locked on John. </p>
<p>He feels as though he isn’t steady on his feet, he’s somewhere too far up above or too burrowed below where he should be. The only thing holding him together are the rusted bolts that Yoko and Derek have installed into his mind, and it’s all that keeps him from unravelling entirely right here. Again and again, he wants to burst into pathetic tears from the sheer desperation he feels, grappling in the dark for Paul-shaped comfort and never finding it. The love he wants to unearth and possess forever. Hitchhiking to Paris was a lifetime ago, but he feels the phantom freedom he had felt standing by the road with Paul prickle in his chest. He sees the ghost of who they were and the shadows of doubt cloak his throat as he sings. Despite everything, he wants to believe in it. </p>
<p>There’s earnesty in Paul’s eyes, in the folky chords and the slight tremble of his voice. The rest of the world melts like candle wax, and he knows he’s done everything he can to fan the flames. But nothing ever pierces the glass between their bodies, even though their souls are intertwined. He keeps trying, though, because he’s a fool and he still believes in what remains of their dream. </p>
<p>
  <em> We’re going home. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
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